‘And it is my duty, my most regrettable duty,’ said nel Macy, glaring at them, ‘to inform you of the death of your former commander, Acir Korentan.’

Tobyn felt the tears start to his eyes. Acir Korentan dead? He looked around him and saw the same dumbfounded expressions on his confrères’ faces.

‘In regrettable – most regrettable – circumstances –’

The distant hectic clang of a warning bell interrupted nel Macy’s words. He faltered a moment, frowning, and then resumed.

‘Circumstances which have brought shame upon the honour of your detachment.’

‘Shame?’ repeated Tobyn, dashing the tears from his eyes with his knuckles. Several of his confrères began to murmur angrily together.

The din of the warning bell grew louder.

‘Captain Korentan was slain whilst aiding a dangerous revolutionary to escape. The Grand Maistre wants me to impress upon you –’

Fists thundered on the armoured doors of the Sanctuary. A Guerrior came running in, his face streaked with blood.

‘Riot!’ he cried. ‘Riot – at the Fortress. Girim – Girim is dead! We need reinforcements.’

‘Lock the Sanctuarees in their cells!’ ordered nel Macy. ‘Noonwatch, fetch your arquebuses. At the double!’

No one moved.

‘At once!’ barked nel Macy.

‘Stay where you are!’ Tobyn leapt up on to the steps beside him.

‘Get down, man, and do as you’re ordered!’ said nel Macy.

‘We’re Captain Korentan’s men.’ Tobyn folded his arms across his chest. ‘And we take our orders from him.’

‘Th-this is insubordination,’ spluttered nel Macy. ‘There’ll be a riot here. A stampede. They’ll massacre us all!’

The wide curve of the Crescent opened up before Khassian as he turned the corner… and faltered a moment. The last time he had come this way it had been night and the Constabulary had been waiting to arrest him: prelude to a nightmare, a nightmare from which he had not yet fully awoken. He saw the sunlight warming the rose-stone pillars and pediments, he saw the cedars on the broad lawns, the evidence of his eyes told him that he was in Sulien. But a part of him still cowered in the dark cells of the Sanctuary, listening in fear for the tread of the guards.

Would he ever be wholly free again?

He walked determinedly up to Mistress Permay’s house.

The mistress of the house opened the door to him – and, seeing who it was, took a step backward.

‘Oh! It’s you.’ Her expression was that of the housewife who goes for a pan of fresh milk only to find it has turned sour. ‘You owe me two months’ rent. I could have let that apartment ten times over! Off you go without a word, leaving all your belongings strewn about –’

‘Ah, yes.’ Khassian stepped forward. ‘My music, Mistress Permay. What have you done with my music?’

‘I don’t recall any music.’

‘A fir-green portfolio containing many sheets. It was left on the escritoire.’